kid 


\ 


*- 


* 
* 


*    % 


w 
..* 


***', 


•••.«*•* 


THE 


MGNOT: 


BY  T.  W.  FIELD. 


NEW-YORK: 

PUBLISHED  BY  CLARK,  AUSTIN  &  CO. 

205  BROADWAY. 

1848. 


au»  eet*  w.  Y.. 


THE  NEW  TOM 
[BRART 


, 


ASTOR,  LENOX  AND 

T1LPEW  FOUNDATIONS 

A         «088         b 


*       4 


** 


« 


THE  MINSTREL  PILGRIM. 


SYMPHONY. 


When  through  the  closing  gates  of  day, 

Bright  vistas  we  behold, 
And  Twilight  trails  along  the  sky, 

Her  mantle  fringed  with  gold, 


When  lingering  day  stands  on  the  hills, 

And  waits  the  veiled  even, 
While  angel  forms  seem  leaning  o'er 

The  battlements  of  Heaven, 


The  weary  soul  on  wings  of  thought 
Seems  fluttering  in  its  clay — 

A  bird  which  views  its  native  land, 
And  pants  to  be  away. 

Ml.91852 


w     *    *  « -  *      «' 

12  THE    MINSTREL    PILGRIM. 


By  the  moaning  woods  which  hymned  all  day 

Their  chaunt  in  olden  psalm, 
I  heard  some  old  familiar  tones, 

Come  sobbing  on  the  calm. 


And  marked  the  traces  of  events 
On  memory's  tear-dimned  book, 

Like  half-filled  footsteps  seen  beneath 
The  waters  of  a  brook. 


A  hum  of  wings  is  on  the  air, 
The  shrill  brook  talks  of  showers, 

And  homeward  bees  along  their  track 
Winnow  perfumes  of  flowers. 


From  out  the  chambers  of  the  night 
The  stars  come  starting  forth, 

Like  sudden  truths  upon  the  soul 
Which  Reason's  night  gave  birth. 


THE    MINSTREL    PILGRIM.  13 


I  hear  the  wheels  of  universe 
Roll  on  their  sphered  round, 

The  awful  march  to  which  the  stars 
Sweep  through  Eternity's  ground. 


When  moonlight  pales,  a  silent  host 

From  the  mould  of  the  churchyard  spring, 

While  back  and  forth,  with  hollow  moan, 
The  forest  branches  swing. 


I  hear  their  shrouded  garments  trail 
Above  the  night  weeds  tall, 

As  misty  shadows,  white  and  frail, 
Sweep  over  the  churchyard  wall. 


Within  the  old  church's  silent  aisles, 
Where  the  light  of  their  souls  was  shed, 

When  moonlight  through  the  stained  glass  smiles, 
I  can  see  the  shrouded  dead. 


14  THE    MINSTREL    PILGRIM. 


And  hear  the  tramp  of  a  mighty  throng 
When  the  solemn  light  grows  dim, 

And  scattered  notes  as  it  sweeps  along, 
Of  a  distant,  holy  hymn. 


And  far  off  voices,  low  and  sad, 
Where  the  fitful  moon-beam's  stray, 

Are  heard  in  a  dreamy  dirge  of  life, 
As  the  shadows  melt  away. 


Then  thoughts  of  mighty  toil  bestir 

Impulses  in  my  soul, 
As  to  a  prisoner's  dream  at  night, 

Rich  strains  of  music  stole. 


And  as  sorrow  gnaws  my  heart  alway, 

With  beak  so  sere  and  thin, 
One  deathless  thought,  all  night  and  day, 

Keeps  burning  on  within. 

%*  .  *  '• 

? 


THE    MINSTREL    PILGRIM.  15 


Oh  !  I  would  speak  with  mighty  tone, 

Ere  in  the  Night  of  Life, 
I  sank  in  gloom  and  sorrow  down, 

One  word  of  its  solemn  strife. 


And  I  would  utter  calm  and  still, 

One  thought  to  linger  yet, 
That  sculptured  on  the  hearts  of  men, 

The  world  could  not  forget ; 


One  Statue  Thought— that  o'er  the  earth 

Its  god-like  smiles  would  cast, 
While  round  its  base,  men  marked  the  trace, 

Of  the  footsteps  of  the  Past. 


THE 

MINSTREL    PILGRIM. 


Dream  winged,  the  gentle  hours  of  sleep  have  flown, 
Silent  and  calm  ;  above  the  pilgrim  land — 

Sweet  seraphs — how  their  dusky  plumes  have  strewn 
Peace,  to  tired  hearts  within  that  exile  band. 


Nature's  pure  things  awake  to  greet  the  morn. 

And  catch  the  smiles  sweet  zephyr  floats  along- 
Drinking  the  incense  on  its  soft  wings  borne, 

To  breathe  it  forth  in  melody  and  song. 


The  mellow  woods  proclaim  the  summer  o'er — 
Their  gold  and  crimson  of  an  autumn  dye, 

The  leafy  parents,  rainbow  flocks  swift  pour — 
On  fluttering  wings  the  brown  leaves  hurry  by. 


* 

20  THE    MINSTREL    PILGRIM. 


New  England's  vales,  serenest  of  the  wild  ! 

A  mellowed  glow  of  ripening  beauty  feel, 
A  warmer  flush  where  fruits  and  harvests  smiled, 

And  ruddy  Autumn  reddens  with  her  chill. 


The  woods  are  hushed — the  hills  in  soft  repose, 
Hang  wreath'd in  mist,  like  dreams  in  childhood's  sleep, 

Embrowned  earth  a  silent  grandeur  knows, 
Which  woods,  and  fields,  majestic  mourners  keep. 


The  weeping  willow  droops  its  yellow  hair 
Twined  by  the  fingers  of  a  murmuring  breeze, 

And  the  gaunt  sycamore  stands  silent  there, 
Lifting  its  great  arms  o'er  the  leafy  seas. 


The  red  leafed  maple — beautiful  in  death  ; 

The  birch,  whose  silver  bark  is  ringed  with  brown; 
The  deathless  green  of  pines — veil  all  beneath 

In  calm — save  when  the  ripe  nuts  rattle  down. 


THE    MINSTREL    PILGRIM.  21 


Dead  trees — the  storied  pillars  of  old  time, 
Where  aged  moss  has  set  its  feet  of  frost — 

Solemn  and  lone,  here  stand  like  skeleton's  grim 
Of  sentinels  forgotten  at  their  post. 


With  humble  aim  here  dwell  the  patriot  swains; 

No  rude  ambition  racks  the  pilgrim's  breast ; 
Nor  envy  jars  the  rustic  minstrel's  strains, — 

They  live  for  heaven,  and  leave  the  world  the  rest. 


And  chief  for  heaven  they  tune  the  raptured  lyre, 
When  bursts  the  dawn  their  strains  with  faith  unfurl'd 

Rush  with  the  morn,  and  heaven's  gates  retire 
To  pour  a  flood  of  glory  on  the  world. 


Morn  greets  them  gathered  on  the  dewy  mead, 
While  some  gray  patriarch  with  awe  touched  air, 

And  trembling  voice,  but  giant  faith  doth  plead, 
And  breathes  on  all  the  sweet  incense  of  prayer. 


22  THE  MINSTREL  PILGRIM. 


That  white  haired  patriarch  life's  dawn  awaits, 
When  breaks  the  soul — swift  from  its  prison  dun, 

Like  some  gray  cloud  at  morning's  dusky  gates, 
From  which  comes  bursting,  the  immortal  sun. 


Scarce  has  the  Night  her  ebon  pinions  furled, 
The  trembling  dawn  proclaims  the  day  new  born, 

Swift  on  the  clouds  which  veil  the  glowing  world, 
Stream  up  the  golden  tresses  of  the  morn. 


The  groves  a  soothing  melody  inspire, 

As  earth's  sweet  dirge  seems  chaunted  o'er  the  ground ; 
And  whispering  zephyrs  wake  the  forest  lyre, 

Till  numbers  melt  in  pensive  measure  round. 


Hark  !  As  a  sigh  some  hallowed  griefs  reveal ; 

From  Earth,  meek  mother,  breathes  a  grateful  calm : 
The  murmuring  woods  a  plaintive  sorrow  feel, 

And  Nature's  mourners  strew  a  holy  balm. 


THE    MINSTREL    PILGRIM.  23 


Now  roll  away  the  gloomy  shades  of  night, 
And  morn  comes  blushing  on  the  ruddy  hills, 

While  nature's  voices  speak  the  wide  delight ; 
A  general  transport,  through  creation  thrills. 


The  herd  released  with  awkward  gambols  bound, 
The  flocks  go  bleating  to  the  hills  with  joy, 

The  merry  laugh  speeds  its  contagious  round, 
And  songs  attend  the  reaper's  sweet  employ. 


The  plough-horse  neighs  to  greet  his  generous  lord, 
With  boisterous  bark,  the  dog  in  circles  wheels, 

And  joyous  urchins  tread  the  dewy  sward, 
While  over  all  the  hum  of  labor  steals. 


All  now  have  settled  to  their  sober  toil, 

The  plastic  axe  and  hammer's  busy  clang, 

The  plough-boy's  whistle  as  he  turns  the  soil. 
With  distant  sheep-bells  blend  in  rural  song. 


THE    MINSTREL    PILGRIM. 


Now  moping  listless,  with  uncertain  tread, 
Or  fitful  speed  that  marked  a  wayward  mind, 

Hard  by  the  brook  a  youth  roamed  o'er  the  mead — 
His  lute  strings  murmuring  to  the  heedless  wind. 


Dim  fancies  stray  along  his  moody  soul, 

While  his  brow  wrinkles  with  their  wayward  trace  ; 
Then  starting,  as  some  thought  of  passion  stole, 

We  see  what  sorrow  speaks  that  gentle  face. 


Oh  !  What  a  wreck  of  human  loveliness  ! 

The  soul's  a  prisoner  in  that  shattered  cell, 
Now  lit  with  smiles — some  angels  sweet  caress — 

And  now  a  maniac  stare  its  sorrows  tell. 


There  was  a  summer  beauty  on  that  face, 

Where  maidens  gazed  and  wondered  why  they  wept; 

And  sweet  drops  wet  his  lips,  as  breathing  low 
They  pressed  their  kisses  on  them  while  he  slept. 


THE    MINSTREL    PILGRIM.  25 


Un chidden  oft  he  stole  his  lips  to  theirs, 

Twining  his  white  arms  round,  with  girlish  grace ; 
Kissing  the  tear  drops — some  sweet  maiden's  tears 

Who  wept,  to  mark  the  wan  destroyer's  trace. 


The  gray  old  patriarch  blessed  him  with  fond  smiles, 
And  guessed  him  victim  of  some  secret  wrong; 

While  matrons  tearful,  owned  his  gentle  wiles, 
The  swain's  rude  soul  was  ravished  by  his  song. 


His  heart's  deep  mysteries  hid  his  secret  tale, 
No  tongue  could  speak  the  mystery  of  his  birth  ; 

'Twas  only  known,  he  wandered  to  the  vale 
One  day,  when  summer  smiled  upon  the  earth. 


Their  homely  welcome  and  their  rustic  joys, 
Soothed  his  wild  sorrows  with  a  grateful  calm ; 

But,  ah !  How  woe  the  soul's  sweet  chords  destroys. 
Thought's  air  born  music  jarred  in  wild  alarm. 

3 


26  THE    MINSTREL    PILGRIM, 


No  marble  science  chilled  his  glowing  thought, 
Nor  learning  checked  his  fancy's  daring  wing, 

His  soul  by  nature's  awful  sculpture  wrought, 
Mirrored  her  form  like  statues  from  a  spring. 


His  soul  awaking  with  celestial  song, 
By  Heaven  itself  was  touched  with  living  fire ; 

And  as  its  notes  of  rapture  fled  along, 

Sweet  nature  strung  with  awful  chords  his  lyre. 


And  now  his  steps  by  wayward  impulse  led, 
Slow  sorrow  drags  his  sickening  course  along  ; 

Or  the  light  thistlet  tempts  his  fitful  speed, 
Then  his  lute's  warblings  mock  the  brook's  hoarse  song. 


Sometimes  with  idle  touch  and  absent  air, 
His  low,  sad  lute  a  broken  dirge-strain  flings, 

Then  its  wild  chords  some  fitful  passion  bear, 
As  fancy  guides  the  spirits  trembling  strings. 


THE    MINSTREL    PILGRIM.  27 


Years  calmed  the  sorrow  of  his  phrensied  soul, 
Where  reason  oft  held  her  majestic  sway, 

And  passion  owned  his  manhood's  strong  control, 
While  solemn  grandeur  sometimes  woke  his  lay. 


But  slow  disease  crept  softly  o'er  his  frame, 
The  torture  of  a  mind  that  frets  in  chains  ; 

And  gnaw  his  heart,  the  serpent  teeth  of  shame, 
Till  life  slow  sickened  by  the  venom  wanes. 


At  eve  he  wandered  with  unsteady  feet 

Where  through  the  glade  which  sheltered  by  a  wood 

With  verdure  mocked  gray  autumn's  tawny  sheet, 
A  brook  o'er  gaunt  roots  poured  its  noisy  flood. 


Adown  the  steep  of  Heaven  flies  the  day, 
And  twilight  trips  along  the  gloaming  mead, 

Her  dewy  robe  shakes  off  its  glittering  spray, 
On  fragrant  flower  cup,  and  the  nodding  weed. 


28  THE    MINSTREL    PILGRIM. 


The  bat  swift  wheeling  on  capricious  wing, 
Oft  startles  such  as  wander  near  her  round, 

The  moaning  ring  dove  in  her  chilly  nest, 

Sends  back  the  whippoorwil's  complaining  sound. 


Now  Shepherd  Day  upon  the  distant  hill 

Calls  home  his  lingering  rays  to  fold  in  dreams. 

And  his  sweet  form  departing  calm  and  still, 
Leaves  on  the  clouds  his  souls  reflected  beams. 


The  flowers  are  sleeping  in  their  beds  of  dew, 
With  tiny  wings  closed  round  their  cups  again, 

Where  vagrant  bees  forgetful  whence  they  flew, 
Sleep  like  young  dreams  upon  an  infant's  brain. 


See,  from  the  world  of  dreams  dim  Silence  comes. 
Mother  of  thought,  she  leads  a  fairy  train, 

Whose  dreamy  presence  stills  the  insect  hums, 
But  wakes  the  poet  to  his  living  strain. 


THE    MINSTREL    PILGRIM.  29 


While  o'er  his  brain  the  teeming  fancies  play, 
Like  fire-winged  insects  mirrored  in  the  stream, 

There  glorious  shadows  of  unseen  things  stray, 
And  wrap  his  mind  in  drapery  of  dreams. 


Now  sobbing  dirges  murmur  on  his  lute — 
And  now  a  wail  of  anguish  fills  the  air — 

Then  as  its  sleeping  chords  lie  hushed  and  mute, 
Hark  !     How  his  frantic  soul  bursts  out  in  prayer. 


"  Oh,  God !  Thy  world  is  beautiful  with  love  ; 

I  feel  its  glories  imaged  on  my  soul ; 
Thy  smile  has  made  it  radient  from  above, 

Oh,  let  me  still  live  on  and  love  the  whole. 


"I  see  the  sun,  above  whose  monarch  brow 
Dark  clouds  hang  fringed  with  molten  rays, 

As  o'er  the  golden  disk  of  my  soul  now 

Sail  sorrow's  clouds,  plumed  with  thought's  gorgeous  blaze. 


30  THE    MINSTREL    PILGRIM. 


"  Down  to  the  sad  brown  earth  on  slanted  clouds 
I  see  the  angels  run  with  steps  of  light, 

While  'mid  the  fringes  of  the  sweet  days  shrouds, 
Float  up  the  ebon  tresses  of  the  Night. 


"  I  see  the  gorgeous  banners  of  the  sky , 
With  braided  strands  of  ebony  and  gold, 

O'er  heaven's  towers  float  vast  and  heavily 
As  half  the  sky  slept  in  each  ocean  fold. 


"  There  sail  the  war  ships  of  the  vaster  deep, 

With  lightnings  pregnant  swell  their  raven  sails  ; 

On  their  huge  breasts  the  red  winged  seraphs  sleep, 
One  cloud — a  skeleton  ship  before  them  sails. 


"  Oh,  lovely  Earth  !     Thy  soul  is  in  my  dreams, 
I  feel  thy  woods  and  waters  sad  sweet  smile, 

As  in  some  gentle  autumn  day  it  seems ; 
Dear  Father — let  me  love  it  yet  awhile. 


THB    MINSTREL    PILGRIM.  31 


"  Oh,  God  !     Tis  beautiful ;  let  me  live  on, 
I  will  not  harm  thy  world ;  but  I  will  love 

Each  atom,  as  I  love  yon  peerless  sun — 

Sweet  Heaven  let  me  dream  of  thee  and  love. 


"  I  would  not  vex  thy  mercy  with  sad  prayers, 
But  oh  !     My  soul  is  fainting  now  with  death — 

I  am  all  sick  at  heart — my  dim  eye  glares, 

Hear  me  sweet  Christ,  my  life  gasps  out  this  breath. 


"  I  see  the  fainting  glories  of  the  earth, 
Pale  in  the  presence  of  the  bashful  night  ; 

The  sky,  which  mirrored  heaven  from  its  birth, 
Fling  its  last  glory  on  the  sad  day's  flight. 


«'  Steep  over  steep  of  purple  blent  with  gold, 
And  palaces  with  many  a  burning  spire, 

Vast  wings  of  flame  which  sleeping  lightnings  fold, 
Like  birds  whose  wings  conceal  a  zone  of  fire. 


THE    MINSTREL    PILGRIM. 


"I  see  the  Night  with  stealthy  footsteps  come, 
As  day  retreats  along  the  well  fought  sky ; 

But  a  dim  presence  whispers  me  of  doom — 
Oh  God  !     How  sad  a  thing  it  is  to  die. 


"  Beautiful  Earth — thy  presence  is  a  joy 
That  sleeps  upon  my  soul  when  day  is  fled ; 

Shall  my  calm  spirit  keep  its  sweet  employ, 

And  like  a  dream  float  near  thee  when  I'm  dead  ? 


"  Shall  thy  far  hills,  and  cloud  throned  waters  gleam 
Calm  on  my  sense  as  in  a  summers  day, 

When  faint  with  love  on  some  tall  cliff  I  dream, 
With  woods  and  lakes,  and  mountains  far  away  ? 


"  I  hear  sweet  voices  murmuring  in  the  wood, 
An  evening  anthem  trembles  on  the  air, 

But  oh  !  my  soul  is  fainting ;  with  that  flood 
Of  music  mingles  my  heart's  bitter  prayer. 


THE    MINSTREL    PILGRIM.  33 


"Oh  Spare  me  Father,  yet  a  little  while, 

I  have  not  seen  the  frost  of  white  haired  years; 

Oh  !  let  me  feel  the  sun's  warm  gladsome  smile 
Long  time  e'er  I  descend  into  the  vale  of  tears. 


"  Dear,  Father !     I  am  in  the  green  of  life, 
I  have  not  come  sin-blighted  to  my  grave. 

And  trembling  beg  thee  to  renew  its  strife, 
But  I  have  loved  all  things  which  thou  gave. 


"  Oh,  yet  a  while — I  cannot  leave  them  now, 
But,  ah  !     What  freezing  touch  has  grasped  my  brain, 

And  these  cold  fingers  flitting  o'er  my  brow — 
Sweet  Heaven — 'tis  death — then  pass  loved  earth — 'tis  vain. 

In  vain  his  prayer — the  phrensied  soul  is  driven 
Forth  from  its  home,  by  stern  unpitying  death, 

But  Hope,  sweet  being,  whispers  dreams  of  heaven, 
And  its  low  music  steal's  his  parting  breath. 

4& 

4 


34  THE    MINSTREL    PILGRIM. 


No  sounds  along  the  veiling  earth  awake, 
Where  darkness  hovers  on  her  ebon  wing, 

Save  one  late  oar  which  sweeps  the  distant  lake, 
And  many  harsh  brook's  drowsy  murmuring. 


There  on  its  bank  with  fainting  limbs  he  lay, 
As  if  he  listened  to  the  brook's  hoarse  song, 

Or  watched  the  landscape  as  it  gloamed  away, 
But  death's  dull  languor  stretched  his  limbs  along. 


The  still-born  words  have  perished  on  his  lips, 
Though  winged  like  angels  for  a  lofty  flight ; 

His  thoughts  have  died,  like  bees  on  flowers  they  sip, 
Their  life  expiring  ere  they  saw  the  light. 


A  wave  of  madness  heaves  upon  his  soul, 
O'er  which  had  rolled  the  tempest  of  despair, 

Reason  flies  shipwrecked  on  its  desert  shoal, 
Lit  by  the  lightnings  of  some  passions  glare. 


THE    MINSTREL    PILGRIM.  35 


No  more  his  soul  is  vocal  with  sweet  thought, 
But  frantic  numbers  linger  on  his  tongue, 

Death  riots  'mid  the  ruin  he  has  wrought, 

While  Hope  disheveled  o'er  his  madness  hung. 


No  more  shall  Fancy  wakeful  at  his  call, 

Sweep  o'er  his  lyres  enraptured  strings  again, 

That  trembling,  wake  in  deaths  untuneful  thrall, 
And  strew  sweet  notes  in  their  discordant  strain. 


Dark  on  his  vision  swims  the  dizzy  night, 
The  gray  robed  world  grows  hoary  on  his  view, 

While  whispering  shades  illure  his  pregnant  sight, 
And  teems  with  life  the  landscape's  dusky  hue. 


Unawed  as  slow  the  unconscious  head  he  droops, 
The  careless  brook  its  jarring  laughter  wakes, 

And  brown  leaves  rustle  by  in  shadowy  troops, 
When  zephyr's  hand  the  parent  forest  shakes. 


36  THE    MINSTREL    PILGRIM. 


Now  raves  the  soul  along  her  crumbling  cell, 
Blending  sweet  notes  amid  her  murmurings, 

Now  breaks  that  heart  in  which  she  loved  to  dwell, 
And  soars  the  spirit  on  her  bursting  wings. 


He  sleeps  at  last — the  sleep  which  knows  no  morn, 
Fond  Nature  weep — thy  sweetest  child  is  dead, 

In  vain  the  lavish  springs  his  bed  adorn, 
The  soul  of  Fancy  with  his  numbers  fled. 


No  virgins  trembling  with  the  bliss  of  love, 
Shall  wreathe  his  harp,  or  list  the  enraptured  strain, 

Or  own  the  raptures  which  his  numbers  move, 
Or  wake  the  soul  of  melody  again. 


Oft  shall  the  hinds  as  listless  by  they  tread, 
With  awe  checked  lip — their  jocund  mirth  repress, 

With  graver  step  pass  by  this  turf  crowned  bed, 
Soft  maids  shall  bathe  its  bloom  in  melting  tenderness. 


REQUIEM. 


A  bright  Pain  came,  to  a  poet's  heart, 

And  sat  on  its  pulseing  throne  ; 

And  woke  the  sleeping  chords  with  its  smart, 

Till  his  soul  was  breathed  in  song. 

Then  nestled  amid  its  golden  dreams, 

And  there  like  a  beautiful  serpent  lay, 

Till  it  eat  the  poet's  life  away. 


A  golden  flame  burnt  on  his  brain, 
With  Thought's  bright  visions  fed, 
While  Fancy's  wings  had  fanned  the  flame, 
And  thousand  beautiful  phantoms  came, 
Sad  tears  on  the  soul  were  shed ; 
For  there  a  beautiful  statue  lay, 
Twas  Reason — sweet  thing,  was  dead. 


38  THE    MINSTREL    PILGRIM. 


A  dazzling  glory  throned  his  brow, 
Where  Thought's  pale  fingers  traced 
Its  sculptured  lines  of  intellect, 
And  Passion's  burning  feet  had  passed, 
Over  the  sweet  soul's  mournful  waste  ; 
In  the  lightning  paths  of  madness  led, 
On  wings  of  fire  his  fancies  fled. 


A  whirlwind  of  thought  had  passed 

Through  the  dim  void  of  mind, 

And  Ihe  wreck  of  a  human  soul  was  cast 

Like  a  ship  on  some  golden  strand. 

An  awful  glory  his  brow  enshrined, 

As  it  were  the  work  of  a  sculptor's  hand, 

By  a  maniac  god  designed. 


And  now  the  strains  of  his  lyre  awoke, 

Their  deathles ;  melody  of  song, 

A  tide  of  celestial  madness  broke 

Like  the  gush  of  a  seraph  throng, 

Blent  with  the  shrieks  of  despair  ; 

For  the  angel  of  sorrow  had  breathed  on  the  lyre 

And  wailed  as  it  sped  along. 


THE    MINSTREL    PILGRIM.  3(1 


Calm  and  sad  on  its  snowy  wings 
His  soul  had  drooped  in  its  own  sweet  ray, 
Like  some  white  dove  in  the  moon's  moultings 
That  droops  with  death  on  its  silver  wings — 
Fron  his  bursting  soul,  two  dark  thoughts  stray, 
Like  the  ebon  wings  of  a  raven  borne 
Through  the  rent  of  a  white  sail  cloud  at  morn. 


Sweet  Fancy  breathed  upon  the  strings, 
Of  the  lyre  she  was  wont  to  sweep ; 
And  wake  the  wild  celestial  things 
That  on  the  chords  of  the  spirit  sleep 
In  folds  of  golden  imageings. 
But  a  trembling  dirge  awoke  its  strain 
And  breathed  a  gush  of  angelic  pain. 


"  In  that  dark  hour  of  parting  gloom, 
When  pressed  your  burning  lips  to  mine, 
And  the  mute  soul  seemed  bursting  through 
The  eyes  where  still  despair  did  shine  ; 
Oh  !     When  in  that  embrace — the  last, 
Your  kiss  went  maddening  to  my  brain, 
Why  did  the  soul  not  pour  its  life 
Out  in  that  kiss,  and  end  its  pain  ? 


40  THE    MINSTREL    PILCRIM. 


"  Again  in  dreams  I  clasp  your  form, 
Your  kisses  riot  on  my  lips, 
And  that  low  voice  awakes  my  soul 
Till  the  crazed  dreamer  madly  weeps. 
And  then  again,  comes  back  that  scene, 
That  night  of  madness  and  despair  ; 
The  burst  of  woe — the  wild  farewell — 
The  agony  of  hopeless  prayer. 

44  The  lingering  gaze  which  treasures  yet 
The  last — the  maddening  look  on  thee, 
And  woman  n'er  wilt  thou  forget, 
Its  prayer  of  silent  agony. 
And  then  the  madness  when  I  rushed, 
A  stricken  thing  from  that  dread  spot, 
Which  made  my  soul  a  living  void 
Where  only  memory  slumbers  not. 

No  more  the  chords,  wild  Fancy  sweeps, 

To  wake  their  notes  of  fire; 

But  a  gentle  one  beside  him  weeps — 

Tis  Hope — sweet  thing  its  vigil  keeps, 

And  strikes  the  tuneless  lyre. 

And  thus  the  Poet's  spirit  fled, 

But  the  pain  sits  on  his  brow, 

With  lines  of  anguish  furrowed. 

And  Fancy  lingers  while  she  weeps. 

For  Hope  is  smiling  on  his  lips. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


fURPOSE 


I  saw  the  vampire  Wrong  feed  at  the  heart 
Of  nations.     All  things  beautiful  and  good, 
Wasted  and  shrunk  before  the  monsters  touch. 
But  yester,  some  all  wise  and  glorious  stood 
Strong  in  the  majesty  of  peace  and  love, 
Now  but  the  fragments  of  some  fall'n  greatness. 
While  serpents  nestled  in  the  breasts  of  men 
Making  a  horrid  lair  in  homes  of  love  and  truth. 


'  v- 


,1  *  * 

•**-     r* 

44  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


Then  I  said,  I  will  be  fearless,  wise,  and  calm, 

Making  the  sick  earth  glad  where  e'er  I  go, 

With  trust  and  hope  right  cheerfully  press  on 

Through  giant  wrongs — Conscious  God's  truth  has  right 

At  all  times  to  be  spoken.     Alway  sift 

The  gold  of  Science  from  the  sands  of  time, 

Reaping  life's  harvest  ever  of  good  deeds, 

And  blessings  to  be  garnered  in  Eternity. 


So  must  I  toil,  and  hope,  through  life's  long  day, 
With  giant  faith  and  solemn  calmness  wait, 
Perhaps  worn  down  with  watching,  tread  the  vale 
Of  man's  last  darkness,  sorrowing  and  alone . 
Yet  shall  these  deeds  I've  strewn  along  life's  waste, 
— Leaving  the  track  of  mercies  all  unseen — 
Like  foot-prints  lost  on  earth  appear  in  heaven. 
Trusting  while  blessings  I  have  strewn  around, 
I  shall  not  fail  at  last — fearless  and  calm 
Await  the  awful  hour  which  waits  for  none, 
And  sleeping  trustful — wake  in  heaven. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS.  45 

THE  MANIAC. 

A  living  statue  ;  whence  a  mind  has  fled — 
A  shattered  form  of  the  Eternal  stands, 
Proud  in  his  agony,  though  hope  is  dead 
Silent  and  thoughtless  'mid  life's  high  commands. 
There  the  proud  spirit  plumes  its  wings  in  vain, 
For  red  eyed  Madness  sits ;  and  clanks  its  freezing  chain. 

The  cold  stern  skeleton  of  Thought  is  there, 
And  sickly  fancies  o'er  his  features  stray, 
Through  lines  where  burning  tears  have  seared  their  way, 
A  living  grave — a  palace  of  Despair. 
While  brooding  o'er  the  waste — a  ruined  thing, 
Within  his  bosom  sits  the  soul  with  folded  wing. 

How  round  his  brain  unhallowed  fancies  rave, 
The  charnel  of  a  thousand  glorious  thoughts, 
Where  ghostly  fears  dance  on  their  blighted  grave, 
Cold  Memory  hides  them  with  a  thousand  blots. 
His  life,  when  all  has  fled  that  could  not  die, 
Is  like  a  tearless  woe,  or  some  dim  sightless  eye. 


46  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

V  » 

SORROWING 


Hark  !  'tis  the  midnight  of  the  soul  again. 
From  awful  sleep,  which  seemed  another  life 
With  gorgeous  thoughts,  and  shapes  majestic  rife, 
I  wake — But  ah  !  to  find  that  elder  life  a  pain 
I  hoped  was  dream,  for  woman  still  to  thee, 
The  loved  and  lost,  looks  back  my  soul  in  agony. 
Like  burning  steel,  these  memories  pierce  my  brain, 
Once  more  I  feel  that  avalanche  of  scorn 
Crushing  my  soul  to  earth,  with  deathless  pain, 
And  the  sweet  veil  of  Hope's  delusion  torn ; 
Oh  God  !  no  rest  for  me  so  crazed  and  worn. 
I  feel  cold  Madness,  like  a  venomed  snake, 
Coiled  mid  sick  fancies  which  his  poison  make, 
Creeping  with  horror,  through  each  swelling  vein, 
While  one  by  one  the  chains  of  reason  break. 


MfPCELLANEOUS    POFM^  47 


THE    INFANT 


An  awful  guest  has  come  to  us, 
A  messenger  of  heaven, 

No  words  he  has  but  looks  the 
The  loved  he  left  had  given. 


The  lids  are  folded  on  his  soul 
But  his  lashes  move  alway 

As  if  he  felt  the  winnowing 
Of  tiny  wings  that  stray, 


Like  young  birds  hovering  o'er  blind  eyes, 

Or  thoughts  aroundtthe  soul ; 
To  win  the  wanderer  back  to  heaven 

From  whose  sweet  guard  he  stole. 


* 

48  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

*     *    . 

A  wondrous  thing  sleeps  in  that  mind 

Unconscious  of  its  power, 
Its  thoughts  unfolded  like  the  leaves 

Around  a  new-born  flower. 


Its  soul  is  flashing  in  its  smile 
And  darkens  in  its  griefs, 

As  sunbeams  that  are  hid  awhile 
And  seen  through  waving  leaves. 


While  faint  and  sad  we  wanderers  stray 

Till  hope  delays  to  come, 
Like  children  drooping  at  their  play, 

God  calls  the  weary  home. 


Our  thoughts  fly  thick  and  fast  to  heaven 
When  age  has  dimmed  the  eye, 

Like  flower  leaves  by  the  tempest  driven 
When  every  leaf  is  dry. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS.  49 


THE    IDIOT 


In  yon  rude  form  sleeps  an  immortal  soul — 

An  angel,  death  will  startle  into  flight, 

As  the  winged  dead  will  burst  the  tomb's  long  night, 

So  that  white  soul,  shall  issue  from  its  cowl. 

Now  frantic  with  its  doom  in  phrensy's  hour 

Shakes  its  crazed  dwelling  with  a  maniac  power. 

The  eyelids  of  the  soul  are  closed  on  it 

Though  sometimes  reason's  glimmerings  burst  the  dark 

As  through  the  rents  of  thunder  clouds  we  mark 

A  silver  fleece  with  heaven's  own  radiance  lit ; 

Lighting  the  darkness  of  the  soul  again, 

To  show  its  wrecks  strewn  o'er  the  spirit's  main. 

There  Passion  broods  and  droops  her  sullen  wing, 

Though  through  the  ebon  curtain  of  the  mind, 

The  lightning  thoughts  of  madness  often  spring, 

Leaving  its  crimson  edges  rent  behind. 

Only  a  sense  of  nothingness  and  dream, 

His  life  one  long  unreal ;  sinks  in  death's  cold  stream. 


50  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

FINALE. 


Through  silent  woods  I  climb  a  mountain's  side, 
O'er  myriad  footprints  of  past  travellers,  tread — 
The  willow  waves  its  mournful  tresses  wide, 
O'er  awful  shades,  where  sleep  the  countless  dead. 

Where  leads  this  thronging  track  ?  On  some  tall  mound 
With  awe  I  backward  gaze,  and  see  it  come 
From  a  calm  vale,  beyond  whose  still  profound, 
Hangs  the  gray  curtain  of  autumnal  gloom. 

Away  towards  the  mountains  top  I  gaze, 
Where  awful  gloom  forever  hath  reposed  ; 
Sometimes  blue  spaces  see  through  gaps  of  maze, 
As  the  cloud  eyelids  of  far  lake  unclosed. 

•*• 

Again  I  climb,  yet  know  not  where  I  go, 
Through  tears  I  sometimes  see  when  clouds  are  riven, 
Calm  glory  flashing  from  the  mountains  brow, 
And  onward  pressing  thither,  hope  tis  heaven. 


S  •*'•  **:.: 
*•*•' 


Mf 
tffcv: 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 


Return  to  desk  from  which  borrowed. 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


•Iff* 


JUN27197? 


LD  21-100m-ll,'49(B7146sl6)476 


I  U     I  u  I  70 


M19185J2 


F 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


:'• 


